


stolen and found

by OneBecomesTwo



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Wolf Link (Legend of Zelda), i'm just indulging myself don't mind me, link vaguely experiencing memories of other link's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-09-17 08:58:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16971633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneBecomesTwo/pseuds/OneBecomesTwo
Summary: A (possible) series of drabbles involving Link finding the stolen relics from Hyrule Castle.





	1. Merchant's Hood

In his hands are a black and blue scarf and a purple rabbit hood.

His senses are struck with familiarity like a tidal wave, and before he can understand it there’s the taste of apples on his tongue, a chirping in his ears, and… something that smells like wet dog.

_The smell of history,_ a voice not his own supplies; he could almost see the melancholic smile that accompanies it.

There’s a weight on his wrist, and it feels like cold metal that fits so right and so wrong at the same time. The tips of his fingers tingle with an unrecognizable power.

From the corner of his eye he sees the cliff wall, and he has the distinct desire to try and lean into it, convinced that he’ll slip straight into the rocky surface in a flurry of pastels and bright light. It’s a ridiculous notion, but he still presses his hand against the stone of the dragon’s claw– nothing, of course, happens.

And just as nothing after nothing happens, there is no magic bracelet on his wrist to trigger _something,_ nor a shady merchant with an odd bird around to insist that he accept such a treasured gift.

He’s alone, just like always, but in his hands are an old scarf and a not-so-familiar familiar hood.

Link pockets the fabric, and ignores the deep pang that he’s certain doesn’t come from him.


	2. Twilight Relic

There’s a wolf that follows him around. It isn’t always there, but on occasion he’ll see it lurking in the shadows, watching him with eyes sharp and an unearthly blue. Sometimes it approaches and sticks close to his side; other times it keeps its distance, only venturing closer to help him in a fight. He doesn’t quite understand it, but he welcomes the company when it's there.

There’s a few things he’s picked up on regarding his odd companion: first, his abnormal intelligence; second, how he avoids villages; and third, his very animated expressiveness. There’s also the pierced ear and the chain – which he’s plenty curious about – but those don’t draw his attention half as much.

No, it’s the wistful staring at the twilight sky that makes him wonder, or the knowing looks that seem to say, _Have courage._  Why is a beast like this here?

He thinks he understands a little better when they find a helmet.

It’s hidden in the fallen ruins of a temple, and the first thing Link notices is how _old_ and _ancient_ the accessory feels in his hands (or should). He sees the hair piece attached to it, and half expects it to rise up and start beckoning him, a childish giggle taunting him along with it.

The second thing he notices is the whine and the very real, very pained look his friend gives.

Something shatters in the far off distance, and his gut says it’s a mirror.

They watch the twilight sky together after that.


	3. Garb of Winds

When he pulls the shirt from the chest, he doesn’t feel anything right away. He looks at it, turns it over, notices how blue it is and that it has a lobster of all things in its design. It’s light and made for warm weather, he notes, and the next breath he takes carries the sea and homemade soup with it.

He thinks that’s the end, but it’s not.

The distant ache lapping against his heart isn’t so distant anymore; it’s closer now, and it brings with it something _known,_ and it hits him hard with all the ferocity of a lynel’s swing.

He chokes on nothing, and when his eyes glaze over, he thinks can almost see it.

It’s a memory of little feet splashing not in the ocean waves, but in the pond at the base of a hill.

It’s not seagulls squawking, but cuccos clucking.

It’s not the salt laden air that fills his lungs, but a sweet pollen coated breeze.

There’s no piglets to chase, just a small foal grazing by a newly planted apple tree.

The dress isn’t blue with red flowers, but a soft, pure white with grass stains and a little mud.

It's not the memory of an island boy who hasn't learned the hardships and the pains of the world yet; but it is the memory of a boy– one that doesn't know about the world half as much as he should anymore, and can't even procure a name for the voice calling, " _Big brother, big brother!"_

He doesn’t know he’s crying until the tears hit his hand, and he wishes – _Goddesses does he wish –_ that he could see the face of the little sister he should remember but _doesn’t_.

The next time he goes home, back to that quaint little house at the top of a hill with an apple tree and a little pond at its base, he thinks to himself that it’s much, much too quiet and far, far too empty.


	4. Strange Mask

His understanding of the Lost Woods is twisted and foggy, which makes sense since that’s exactly what the place is like. It’s an eerie liminal space where he can’t tell north from south, or day from night, or whether an hour or several minutes have passed. Time doesn’t exist in the Lost Woods.

It isn’t his favorite place to go when he already has such a shaky hold over himself; he prefers to keep a solid grasp of the world around him at least, and the only thing certain about the Lost Woods is the wind that’ll lead him to the Sacred Grove at the forest’s heart.

It gets worse when, sometimes, when he’s following that little breeze, he notices something that maybe shouldn’t be there (or maybe should). 

Sometimes what he hears isn’t the grass rustling, or some animal being startled by his presence– sometimes he hears an ocarina, sometimes a violin, and sometimes he hears the clacking of wood and a child sniggering. A trumpet echoes from every side, and the hair on his arms stand on end.

Or at least he _thinks_ he hears these things. When he catches sight of glowing orange eyes and a pointed hat, or the silhouette of someone short and small and almost hylian in shape, it’s usually a little more than just unsettling. 

The Lost Woods are a quiet place, and with how warped and confusing they already are, he wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest if those grinning trees were playing tricks on his mind. ‘ _It could be worse,’_ he tells himself, and he knows it’s true. He’s lucky that no stalfos wander nearby, or anything else equally sinister (like puppets). 

It doesn’t comfort him all that much, but at least this time he doesn’t have to make it to the heart of the forest– not that treasure hunting seems like a better alternative. Searching each tree through heavy mist, where one wrong step could mean starting all over again, is not his idea of a good time. 

The minutes pass though, or maybe hours, and he’s already had several close shaves with getting sent back to the entrance when he finally finds what he came for.

It’s a korok mask.

And like all the other stolen treasures he’s found, something seems to wash over him when he takes it into his hands.

For just a moment, he isn’t sitting crouched in the mouth of a tree, but instead he faces a familiar shape. A korok, rounder than any he has met, holding an instrument that could be called a cello rather than a violin for the size of its owner. Nothing is spoken, but nothing needs to be said. They give a bow, and ready themselves to begin their performance.

There’s nothing more than that, but when he slips the mask on and begins his journey back, he finds himself listening as the wind sings, and a violin plays for an audience he doesn't yet see.


	5. Ancient Mask

Link doesn’t know if he hates the moon or loves it.

On most nights it’s beautiful. A small light in an endless darkness; a pearl in a sea of black– the moon hangs in the sky like a watchful eye, and it’s almost comforting.

But then come the nights where the moon bleeds  _ red _ with  _ hate  _ and  _ malice _ , and he decidedly doesn’t like it during these moments. The moon, he thinks, has no business bringing back the bokoblins, lizalfos, hinoxes, moblins, taluses, wizzrobes, and those goddess forsaken lynels– he pours so much time and effort into taking them out, only to have them revive in one single blasphemous hour.

It’s frustrating, even if he does know that he doesn’t  _ have  _ to go out of his way to kill every monster that he crosses paths with.

He doesn’t, for the record, or at least not anymore. Instead, he puts on masks that trick the vile creatures into thinking he’s one of them, and it lets him pass unscathed without a single one of his weapons on the verge of breaking. It’s the method he relies on now, as he walks through the trees decorating the edges of Lake Kolomo. He’d already been here once before, scavenging for the one perfect spot that would make something  _ click  _ in his mind (and he found it, only to leave with a question ringing in his ears, and no answer to offer); but tonight he wanders along the shores for a different reason.

There is a mask here, somewhere, and he fully intends to find it.

He takes his time, breathes in the crisp night air, marvels at the beauty of the stars and the moon reflected in the water’s surface, revels in the feeling of the breeze playing with his hair. Like this, he can almost forget who he’s meant to be, or that Hyrule is still plagued by the scourge that is Calamity Ganon. He can almost forget that he doesn’t know as much as he should, and that what he does is hardly anything good- but monsters lurk at the edges of his vision, and an ancient blade hums behind his back; two constant reminders that’ll keep him marching, whether he wants to or not.

He finds his way to the ruins of the Kolomo Garrison, and it’s just as dilapidated and broken as any other place of old. It’s nothing new, but stepping onto the grounds brings a chill that sinks deep into his bones and forces a shudder down his spine.

_ Wrong. _

The thought comes unbidden, and Link tries to ignore the way that his hair stands on end, or the way the back of his neck prickles with unease.

He finds the chest half buried by a wall, covered in dirt and grime, but otherwise intact and free of rust. Inside is his prize. 

A carved mask intricately painted with colors of purple, blue, green, red, and yellow, accented with white and black. Ten spikes jut out; four on the right, four on the left, two on top. 

_ Wrong _ .

Bulging yellow eyes hold him transfixed, and he distantly registers that his lungs are no longer working, that his fingers are gripping the edges too tight. The clock that haunts him has fallen silent.

Link shivers, forces himself to tear his gaze away, and looks upwards towards the moon.

It’s there, right where it should be. It’s not too close, it doesn’t glare at him, it isn’t even dyed that ugly blood red that happens every month or so– the moon is pale and normal, just like it should be. He isn’t sure why he expected anything else.

The clock moves forward, and the world breathes again.


End file.
